The Mother Who Chose Another Daughter

The moment I stepped through the door, I saw that my mother had prepared a homecoming for me.

Balloons drifted across the living room.

At the center, ringed by more flowers than I could count, sat the newest phone and a dozen-odd limited-edition handbags.

Diamond necklaces covered the coffee table. A row of black cards lined up beside them, each one good for a fortune.

These were everything I used to dream of.

But three years had passed, and now they only struck me as a cruel joke.

The housekeeper held a confetti popper, ready to twist it open.

Then she caught the cold set of my mother's face and hesitated, leaving it untouched.

After a long while, I walked forward slowly and took only the phone.

My mother spoke, her voice cold.

"Still sulking, are you?"

"Then give all of this to Myrtle Fox. Let's see how long you can keep it up."

I lasted far longer than she ever imagined.

Two months went by. Every day I locked myself in my room.

The only time I came out was to eat.

When I was small, eating had been pure torture.

Because whether I was hungry or not, every dish the housekeeper made had to be finished.

Even a grain of rice that fell to the floor had to be picked up and eaten on the spot.

The rule held even when I was so full my stomach ached.

Back then I cried and threw fits. Once I simply couldn't swallow another bite.

I even talked back to my mother and slammed my bowl down right in front of her.

She took me straight to the country and put me to farm labor for half a year.

"Go see how farmers break their backs to grow their food. You were born with a silver spoon in your mouth. Until you live it, you'll never understand."

My mother watched me, filthy and dripping with sweat, hauling a hoe, and her eyes were hard.

It hurt her to see it, but she waited for me to admit I was wrong.

I held out the full half year instead. Day after day of hardship, and I never bowed my head.

I was too young, in the end, for her to bear it, and she brought me home.

Now she thought I would dig in the same way.

But I ate carefully at every meal, finished everything on my plate, refused to waste a single grain.

In Fox Hollow, when others ate rice, I was given wild greens.

It wasn't that I had come around to my mother's thinking.

It was that I hadn't eaten a full meal in so very long.

She believed I had changed, and her manner toward me slowly warmed.

On the holiday, over the family dinner, I was carefully scraping up the last crumbs clinging to my plate.

My mother watched me with something close to pain.

"Irene, leave those. Look how thin you are. Eat more of the real food."

Myrtle's voice turned at once, all sour mockery.

"I think you're doing it on purpose, to make her feel sorry for you."

"You're playing the victim. Mom won't care."

I froze. In my ears I heard Noah's voice from the times he beat me.

"Two hits with the stick and you can't get up? Playing the victim?"

"Let me tell you, even if your mother knew she wouldn't care. She sent you here to suffer."

Myrtle's voice and Noah's seemed to fold into one.

The fear soaked into my bones came roaring up, prickling across my scalp, and something behind my eyes simply gave way, my whole body going cold and loose at once.

I dropped to my knees and began slamming my forehead to the floor in front of Myrtle, again and again.

The same words pouring out of me.

"Don't hit me, don't hit me. I won't ever do it again."

Myrtle jumped. My mother's face changed too, and she rushed to pull me up.

"Myrtle, call your private doctor. Find out whether something is really wrong with Irene's mind."

Myrtle took out her phone and went into the bedroom to make the call.

I shook and shook, curled into my mother's arms, my clothes soaked through with cold sweat.

She held me tight, the rims of her eyes gone red.

Half an hour later, Dr. Lawrence arrived.